


Everything We Touch

by pepparminten



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anyways this is just Eurovision porn basically, Eurovision fun times, F/M, Fluff is gonna ensue, Love Love Peace Peace, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Probs some smut as well, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, any slander of eurovision does not reflect author's real opinions, ben solo is just a pretentious ass, eurovision au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-06 11:12:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18849916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepparminten/pseuds/pepparminten
Summary: here's that eurovision song contest au you didn't know you wanted.





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> Hooooooooooooooo here we go. It's time, isn't it? IT'S EUROVISION BABY!
> 
> Rating may change and more tags may be added as we go, nothing major though. If you're concerned with avoiding triggers, I'd advice you to check the author's notes in the beginning of every chapter. I will update the tags accordingly and put out TW/CWs in the notes before anything triggering. This fic will stay on the lighter side though, don't worry.
> 
> There will be something like 6 chapters in total. I will update as frequently as possible.
> 
> This chapter was betaed by @blessmycircuits on twitter on the shortest notice. I'm forever grateful.
> 
> Special thanks to @theblastjedi, without whom this fic would have landed forever on my heaping pile of unfinished trash. Your support has meant everything to me.
> 
> Now, enjoy and don't forget to dance the _Lasha Tumbai_ , right?

The woman on Ben Solo’s laptop screen is mimicking a chicken. His eyes are tearing from lack of sleep, from staring at a screen for too long, from the time being goddamn 4:30 in the morning. _I’m not your toy,_ sings the woman on the screen, and Ben agrees; she’s no toy. She is his personal torture device. Not that the song is particularly bad. But after something like 20 Eurovision acts, he is done, finished, please and thank you.

But he isn’t. He groans as he checks the playlist; he’s not even halfway through and he’s already finished more than half of his six-pack. He’s gonna have to space them out to make them last.

If the chicken woman is his personal torture device, Snoke is the tormentor. He can’t see how watching all his competitors’ performances in advance is in any way useful when he’ll see them live in just a few days. But he knows better than to get on his managers’ bad side. Some things with his manager are necessary evils. _Just do it,_ says the Nike commercial in his head. Yeah, whatever.

Rubbing his tired eyes with the palm of his hand, he fast-forwards through Bulgaria’s power ballad; 30 seconds of it is enough. The dramatically choreographed man with a razor-sharp jawline and the woman with extravagant hair extensions will never reach the top 5 in any competition, except maybe _most clichéd romantic hand gestures_. He moves on.

This ordeal has brought him one insight so far: his upbringing in the States could have been worse. Although mostly miserable, at least it spared him sitting through the Eurovision Song Contest every year. Most of the songs are just plain _bad_. Some are decent, to be fair, but a few are downright bizarre. He stares for a while at Ireland’s competitor, a pompous-looking redhead whose act includes a harassed looking guy in _a human hamster wheel._ What the everloving fuck _._

Belgium is next. A man with sunglasses and a beard arrives onstage in a beach buggy. The song is nice, catchy, but seems too… hipster-quirky compared to the rest of the songs. Ben still can’t grasp this stupid competition, but he can’t see this song winning. Okay. Next. Czech Republic. Eurodisco is, as far as he knows, twenty years out of fashion, so that should definitely not be a threat to him. Russia. Ballad about peace. No threat, especially not considering the situation in Ukraine, he thinks to himself, snorting. Next. San Marino. Is that even a country?

He skims the videos, one after another. More or less forgettable performances flash by, none of them making any particular impression. He is almost dozing off when “Norway” flashes on his screen and he blinks, trying to focus his bloodshot eyes on the artist who is taking their place at the center of the stage.

It’s a girl standing in the spotlight. She clutches a acoustic guitar to her chest and smiles nervously at the cameras. A second guitarist, a guy, is standing slightly behind her. Ben can’t help but roll his eyes. If there’s one trend in music he couldn’t be more done with, it’s singer-songwriters with acoustic guitars and harmonies and pretentious lyrics that sound like they came out of an 18th century dictionary someone found while cleaning out their great-aunt’s attic. After the first five seconds of strings plucking in some minor key he’s ready to move on to the next song, and the pair haven’t even started singing yet. But then the girl does start to sing and he abruptly halts his hand in mid-air, hovering above his keyboard.

The girl sings with a voice so crystal clear it makes the hair on his arms stand up. It’s no pop song, no lovesick ballad, no plea for peace, nor a recollection of some little-known battle from some country’s war-plagued history. In short, it’s entirely different from what he’s heard so far.

The guy behind her is playing slide guitar. It’s a melancholic sound. It reminds him of the songs his father used to play on the car stereo when they were driving down the country roads surrounding their ranch, back when Ben still had milk teeth and was on speaking terms with his father.

The song doesn’t seem to have a distinguishable chorus. It is only the two guitars and the girl’s voice. It goes on and on, never betraying where it's going, like a dirt road snaking its way through a barren landscape. It’s beautiful. And haunting.

_I won't be missing your tender kissing_

_'Cause the light will wipe out all the scars_

The second half of the song is purely instrumental. Ben wonders if that’s even allowed in Eurovision; every other song seems to rely on verse-chorus-verse-chorus-bridge-chorus. The slide guitar is taking the spotlight now; the camera zooms in on the guitarist. Ben wonders if the two are a couple.

The girl is harmonizing now. The main show is still the slide guitar, but her vocals fill out the frame just perfectly. It’s angelic, sad, and so full of emotion that he has to close his eyes and just listen. It sounds like pure longing.

Ben opens his eyes only when the crowd starts applauding. “Rey & Finn - Reincarnation” is captioned in the corner of the screen. The girl, Rey, evidently, is looking unsmiling into the camera. She has green eyes and they are piercing him, burning through his skull like she is reading his mind through the screen. There is something in her eyes and her voice... He can’t help but feel like she knows him. Like they belong together _._ Which is ridiculous, of course, but he can’t shake the feeling that she _sees_ him. It sends shivers up his spine.

He replays the video. Twice. Three times. He can’t tear his eyes away from Rey, from freckles and green eyes and that crystal clear voice and the sound of longing. At some point, his eyes get suspiciously wet. He replays it five times before moving on, realizing he still has a solid bunch of entries left and he's out of both beer and time. The sun is rising and he’s desperate for sleep.

The rest of the numbers don’t make much of an impression on him. Rey from Norway is still on his mind when the sun is fully risen outside his window and he closes his laptop, finally finished. He yawns as he shuffles off to bed and slides under the sheets.

Sleep latches on to him. _Rey_ , he thinks, halfway into a dream already. _Rey from Norway. Who are you? Why do I feel like you know me?_ _What is it you long for?_

He falls asleep with the sound of a crystal clear voice and slide guitar still ringing in his mind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who is the [chicken woman](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=84LBjXaeKk4)?  
> Did someone really [have a human hamster wheel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=slHboKF9PIQ)?  
> Who [arrived onstage in a beach buggy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CZQjBCvFd9E)?  
> Russia really did [a ballad about peace](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q2gbKglCL5s)? 
> 
> And finally, what is this [awesome song Rey and Finn are performing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S4cpyFAHEmI)?
> 
> See you in the next chapter, where Ben just might meet the mysterious Rey from Norway.


	2. Fångad av en stormvind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is named after Sweden's 1991 Eurovision winning song, [Fångad av en stormvind](https://youtu.be/QLS3aC8DFdQ?t=107). Do yourself a favor and check it out. I promise you won't regret it. 
> 
> Again betaed by the fantastic @blessmycircuits.

“I can’t believe we’re here.” The room is full of people, delegates and managers, and God knows what else all these people are doing in here. Until they arrived in Belgrade yesterday, Rey still couldn’t believe this was happening. Now there’s a badge hanging from her neck that reads _NORWAY: DELEGATE,_ and they’re just about to be briefed on their schedules for the fourteen days leading up to the Eurovision Song Contest. It’s happening. And she’s here. She’s so excited she can’t stand still.

“Me neither, peanut.” Finn squeezes her hand and smiles at her. It _is_ hard to believe they're here. 18 months ago, Finn was still toiling away on an oil rig in the North Sea, and she was working three jobs - waiting tables, repairing cars, and cleaning hotels back in Oslo. As the phone reception wasn’t great in the North Sea, they had kept in touch via USB. They took turns composing songs about their day-to-day lives and sent them to each other. Finn’s “I Hate My Life (Oil is Very Profitable Though)” is a classic they still tend to lapse into after a few beers.

So much has changed since then. They even have a decent apartment now, one that they don’t have to share with twelve eighteen-year-old Swedes working 24/7 to save up money for their post-high school backpacking trip to Asia, and yet not having grasped why doing dishes is important or why you need a detergent to clean the bathroom.

For the last year they have been surviving on their combined savings and part time jobs, trying to launch their music career in their spare time. They have decided to give it two years; they don’t have much more time to spare. If they can’t make it as musicians, Finn wants to go to university. Rey doesn’t know what she wants if she can’t do music, so she gives her all on every demo they record, on every street performance they do, on every dive bar gig they manage to score. She doesn’t let herself think about the future.

About a year ago, they decided to apply to Melodi Grand Prix. Worth a shot, they thought, nothing bad could come out of it. If they got in, they’d get some recognition, some contacts, and, with some luck, a way forward. If not, then they just had to keep uploading on YouTube, send their demos to record companies and play at bars and streets for another half year, let fate make or break them.

Rey could never have imagined _winning_ the damn thing. And now they’re in the Eurovision Song Contest. If that's not the definition of _surreal_ , she doesn't know what is. She squeezes Finn’s hand back.

“Let’s grab some seats in the back before they're all occupied.” They grab some fruit and water from the table laden with snacks and make for the back row. Most people are still mingling. The only back row seat taken is occupied by a guy who’s deeply immersed in his phone. Rey frowns. She’s pretty sure he’s one of the delegates, from France if she remembers correctly, but without the dramatic stage makeup he looks different. And the video she watched on YouTube sure didn’t convey his build adequately. In the video, he had looked ethereal, otherworldly; in real life he’s built like a refrigerator. And, she can’t help but notice, he’s _really_ handsome.

Fuck. She’s too close now to abruptly change her course, and Finn is behind her, she can’t shove him in front of her either. She's got no choice but to take the seat next to him, acutely aware of how close their chairs sit and how bizarrely broad his shoulders are. It’s _beyond_ uncomfortable.

Finn hasn’t noticed. He is staring in the opposite direction, and when Rey follows his gaze her eyes land on a man with olive skin and dark, curly hair. His badge is hardly visible from here, but Rey identifies the white and blue Greek flag. The man is lounging in his chair, staring back at Finn, smiling suggestively, and then he _winks._

“Subtle,” she mumbles, rolling her eyes. Finn tears his eyes away from the sprawling man-candy. He looks dumbstruck.

“What?”

“I said,” Rey wrestles the untouched peach from his hand and takes a bite, “that was subtle. Very sophisticated.”

“Uhu,” he says vaguely, already turning his attention back to the Greek God in disguise, clearly lost for the moment. Rey sighs and is just about to take up her phone to pass the time, now that Finn is not a viable distraction, when she notices that Finn isn’t the only one being ogled.

The very handsome French delegate has noticed her. From the one time she has seen his performance, she remembers his eyes as slanted and slightly hooded, but now they’re comically round, blown wide in what is unmistakably surprise. His mouth even starts to fall open. He is positively _gawking_ at her _._ Rey feels herself going hot under his gaze and tries to remember if she looks especially weird today, but before she can come up with something, a woman in a Eurovision t-shirt claps her hands and steps up on the podium in front of the assembled chairs.

The man snaps his eyes away from her and turns his attention to the presentation that’s just started. Rey becomes aware of her heart beating faster than usual. How embarrassing. She tries to focus on the woman who’s begun to welcome the delegates in their native languages, but this guy is, apart from being so broad their shoulders almost touch, also a friggin’ thermal power station. Or is it the room that has suddenly gone very hot?

Rey groans inwardly. This is going to be a _long_ meeting.

* * *

 

Thirty minutes in, Finn is dozing against her shoulder and Rey has finished a good few levels of Candy Crush. Mr. Handsome French Delegate is deeply absorbed in his phone again, although Rey has caught him glancing at her several times. It’s both uncomfortable and… exciting? Maybe? It’s been long since anyone but drunks in the bars they play has paid her any attention. She doesn’t know what to make of it.

French guy is playing a game on his phone, too. Rey glances at it, it looks like some sort of 3D puzzle. The design is quite beautiful, actually, and as his large hands carefully twist and turn the pieces in the puzzle she slowly becomes enthralled. She doesn’t realize she has abandoned her own game and is following his with rapt attention until people start to rise from their chairs. She snaps her gaze from his phone; the meeting is over. Finn lifts his head from her shoulder and yawns.

“Hi,” says a deep voice next to her. She turns around in her seat. The first thing she notices is his teeth, he's smiling at her. His teeth are crooked and _isn't that just convenient_. Rey's always had a soft spot for crooked teeth. It's really hot in this room.

“I'm Ben.” She takes his outstretched hand. She's already noticed that his hands are huge from watching him tap on his phone for half an hour. Her hand practically disappears in his.

“I'm Rey.”

“I know.” She lifts her brow.

“Uh, I mean, I saw your performance. I recognize you,” he explains, words tumbling out over a set of beautiful, full lips, which Rey suddenly realizes she is staring at. She hastily meets his eyes again and throws on a smile, mentally kicking herself.

“Right, I recognized you too. I really liked your song.”

“Oh, no.” Rey frowns.

“What?”

“That was my line.”

“Oh.” She laughs. Ben smiles again.

“I really did, though. It's a very unorthodox Eurovision song, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Thanks. And I don't mind, we didn't write with Eurovision in mind. We just sort of picked one of our songs at random and submitted it. We didn't think we'd get in.”

“Really?” Rey scoffs.

“No. I mean, when you’ve been sending every record company in Europe your demos and played every street corner and dive bar in Oslo for years and nothing came out of it, I don’t think that expectation was very off.”

Ben is silent for a while. His jaw is working while he looks at her; it looks like he tries to chew his words into existence.

“I’m trying to understand,” he begins, “if record companies are just incapable of recognizing good music these days, or if there’s a chance you might have got their addresses wrong?”

Rey frowns again. She can’t tell if he’s complimenting her, or if that last bit was really him questioning her ability to send a fucking letter. He obviously recognizes her confusion and hurries to correct himself.

“I’m sorry. That last bit about the addresses was a joke.” Rey thaws a little.

“Right. It wasn't a very good joke.”

“No. I'm sorry.” He chews on his cheek again. “What I’m trying to say is that I can’t understand how anyone in the music industry could hear your music and reject it.” Oh. Rey blinks. It was a compliment then. Even after the praise they got from winning the Melodi Grand Prix, she’s still not used to it. Being generally unwanted for your entire life does make praise a little hard to stomach.

“Thanks,” she says in earnest, hoping that Ben understands that she’s not just polite, that she really _is_ thankful and that his praise actually means something to her. He gives her a lopsided smile.

“When I first saw your performance, I replayed it five times.”

“You didn’t!” Ben actually chuckles at this.

“I did, yeah. It’s so superior to the rest, I actually don’t know why we’re even bothering with this competition. It’s the best song I’ve hea-” Ben cuts himself off and closes his mouth so abruptly Rey’s afraid he bit his tongue off. His knits his brows. He's spotted something behind her and Rey looks over her shoulder to find the reason for his sudden discomfort.

A tall, slender man, is making his way towards them through the dispersing crowd. He is balding, and his pale features are warped by a huge, jagged scar. Rey's warning system is suddenly on high alert. There's something about this man that makes every fibre in her body scream _not good not good not good_.

Ben has an odd expression on his face. He doesn't return the smile the man gives him, and he goes absolutely still as the man reaches them and places a claw-like hand on his shoulder. There’s something possessive about the gesture which Rey immediately loathes with an intensity that even surprises herself. Who _is_ this creep, even? She quickly eyes his badge and feels a cold rush through her as she reads; _FRANCE:_ _MANAGER._ This creep is Ben’s fucking _manager._

The man leers down at Rey, condescension practically seeping from him. She fights a sudden urge to bare her teeth at him. The man turns his eyes back to Ben, who is studying his shoes.

“Come,” he rasps. Ben nods shortly and rises from his chair, and the slender man walks ahead, not even making sure Ben is following. Rey shoots him a questioning gaze and when he meets her gaze, his eyes are pleading. His jaw is working again and it seems to be a mouthful this time, like there’s too many words and he can’t get them together. He looks crestfallen. It tugs at her heart and immediately makes her want to put him at ease. She waves her hand to indicate _it’s nothing_ , although it is, it clearly is. This creep is making Ben uncomfortable and it _bothers_ her and she’s known him for five minutes.

“It’s okay,” she mouths, not wanting the creep to hear her. Ben nods shortly, some of the tightness in is jaw slackening.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles and starts to shuffle off towards the door. Rey feels a flash of panic. She doesn’t want him to leave like this, looking so defeated, apologizing to her for, what, having a creep manager? She scrambles for her tote, hastily scribbling down her WhatsApp details on a piece of paper.

“Ben!” she says just loud enough for him to hear her. He turns around.

“I’ll see you around.” She holds out the scrap of paper. The corners of his mouth curl upwards just a little and he retraces his steps, taking the paper from her. As he looks down on it, the curl transforms into a smile. He looks relieved.

“You too. Thanks.” He nods to her and turns back to follow his manager out of the room, meeting her eye one last time before disappearing through the doors. He lifts his hand and gives her a little wave. Then he's gone.

“Okay, what the fuck did I just witness?” Rey has completely forgotten that Finn sits right next to her.

“Uh, so, that was Ben. He's from France.”

“I've been next to you this whole time. I heard it. Do we know him? Did you just _give him your number?_ ” Finn is as weary of strangers as she is. Or was. Rey can't remember the last time she _smiled_ at a stranger, let alone gave someone her contact information. She practically threw herself at this guy. _Ugh_. Embarrassing.

“Not really, no,” she answers slowly, still looking at the door through which Ben left. He hadn't _felt_ like a stranger though. Something about him had made her feel… Well, almost relaxed. Rey doesn't feel _relaxed_ in the company of strangers. She doesn't smile, she _glares._

No, smiling and being friendly is Finn's domain. They're equally untrusting deep down, but Finn has another approach to it. Just like her, Finn doesn't let anyone get too close, but their definitions of “close” differ by quite a bit. Finn doesn't count casual dates and one night stands as “close”. Rey counts anyone who comes within half a metre of her personal space as “absolutely too fucking close”.

Her phone buzzes.

 **< BenS>** _Hello. This is Ben. Sorry about that._

She doesn't notice how Finn is shaking his head. She is staring at her phone, smiling.

 **< ReyJ>** _Hi again. You don't have to apologize, you did nothing_ _wrong. Your manager is a bit weird though >_

_Ben is typing…_

_Ben is typing…_

**< BenS>** _I know, but please don't mind him. He can come across_ _as unpleasant but I promise, it's nothing personal. That's just_ _how he is._

 **< ReyJ>** _Okay._

< **BenS >** _I didn't get to finish what I was saying before._

 **< BenS>** _Your song is the best song I've heard in a long time._ _Maybe ever. If you don't win this stupid competition, something_ _is seriously wrong with this world._

As Finn is reading over her shoulder, sighing in a way disturbingly close to how how she reacted to Winking Greek Guy, Rey feels that for the first time in ages, something is actually quite _right_ with this world.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> Why are Swedish eighteen-year-olds [working in Norway](https://www.nytimes.com/2007/12/30/world/europe/30norway.html)?  
> What's [Melodi Grand Prix](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Melodi_Grand_Prix)?  
> What [game](https://www.ustwo.com/work/monument-valley-mobile-games) is Ben playing?
> 
> See you in the next update, where shenanigans will ensue.


	3. If Love Was a Crime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is named after [Bulgaria's excellent 2016 Eurovision entry](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yKsNfccUTuk). 
> 
> @blessmycircuits have yet again done a wonderful job as beta for this chapter, and in the process I learned that [fast shades](https://www.google.com/search?q=snabba+solglas%C3%B6gon&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjO3bvNkqriAhVDmIsKHcRIC5EQ_AUIDigB&biw=958&bih=954) is, in fact, not an expression commonly used around the world. 
> 
> LIGHT TW/CW: Angst, Snoke's an ass, Ben doesn't have the best anxiety management techniques (surprise!). If you're triggered by descriptions of anxiety, you can skip the first bit and start reading at "He can see Rey watching his hands...". 
> 
> Enjoy!

_You have disappointed me. You're a worthless, useless, pathetic excuse for an artist. You couldn’t muster less of your grandfather’s magnificence if you tried. You sicken me._

Snoke’s words burn worse than if he’d hit him. Ben closes his eyes as his manager turns on his heel and stalks off, leaving him standing in the middle of the packed cafeteria, burning with shame. The room around him is a thick, deafening silence, and he feels the skin on his knuckles strain as his grip on his lunch tray tightens.

He should have known this would happen sooner or later. He has been unfocused, distracted, not paying attention, not practicing enough. Hanging back in the lunchroom, lurking around backstage, even visiting the hotel bar, just to hang out with _someone_ has clearly made him lose his focus. His last rehearsal was decent, but far from what he knows his manager expects from him. Snoke doesn’t accept anything but perfection. He brought this on himself.

Ben rolls his eyes back behind closed lids, pushing backwards until it’s uncomfortable, bordering on painful. It’s a strategy he’s used often throughout the years; it makes him feel a little more centered, like he’s rolling in on himself, keeping the feeling of disintegrating at bay. He stands like that for a while. He hears the room starting to move about again. Muffled voices and whispers. A faint touch to his elbow.

“Ben?” He opens his eyes.

Rey is standing in front of him. Her face is concerned, but right behind the concern is anger. She is angry on his behalf. That loosens the knot in his chest somewhat and he feels his shoulders relaxing, just a fraction. She has this effect on him.

“Are you alright?” Ben doesn’t want to check to feel if he’s alright; there’s no use. He knows that reaching for his feelings in this moment would be a helter skelter ride down into total, unforgiving darkness, and it's _absolutely no use_ going there. Last time he went there he trashed a hotel room. So. He clears his throat and meets Rey’s eyes.

“I’m fine.” She regards him silently. He can tell that she doesn’t believe him. She should. Really, he's fine. He can choose to stay above the black hole, he can choose not to acknowledge it. It’s like flipping a switch. He can turn the feelings back on later, when he's alone and can scream into his pillow until he blacks out.

“Come on. Come.” Rey nudges his elbow and shepherds him towards the door. He trots out, still clutching his lunch tray. A disadvantage of shutting off like this is that he does get a little… Zombie-y. Normally no one notices because no one bothers, and he can use his reptile brain to make it to solitude. Now it's a little awkward.

Rey leads him through the maze of backstage corridors until she finds a deserted one. She sits down cross-legged on the floor, patting the linoleum mat next to her.

“Sit.” He obeys. She takes his tray and helps herself to an apple he picked out but never got to eat.

“What was that about?”

“Nothing.” Rey snorts.

“Yeah, I could tell.” But she relents. They are silent for a moment. His hands, now devoid of a tray to cling onto, feel numb and cold, so he closes them hard. Relaxes them. Closes them again. He feels his nails press into his palms, and it hurts just enough to keep him centered, keeping the switch off and keeping himself above the lurking darkness below.

He can see Rey watching his hands from the corner of his eye. WIthout warning, she grabs the closest one, letting it rest on her thigh as she starts kneading his palm with her thumbs. Her hands are soft and fine; his paw looks brutish under her slender fingers. He watches as she works in silence, kneading his palm, the inside of his fingers, the back of his hand.

“Feeling better?” she says after a while, letting go of his hand. He flexes his fingers, surprised to find that while she was working on his hand, he completely forgot about Snoke and the scolding he received in the cafeteria.

“Yeah,” he replies, turning his head to meet her gaze. She’s smiling softly and there’s something in the way that she looks at him that tells him that she _understands._ Or maybe he’s imagining things, seeing what he wants to see. But somehow, he doesn’t really believe that. Rey’s smile widens.

“I think you need some cheering up. I have an idea. It’s kinda crazy. Do you trust me?” He regards her for a second; wavy, brown hair, freckles dotted over high cheekbones, soft lashes framing green eyes glinting with mischief. Pink lips. They look soft.

“Of course I trust you,” he replies. Rey’s smile twists into a grin. It almost makes him nervous.

“Okay. I want to have a picnic.” Oh. That’s _not_ what he was expecting. “There’s a really nice park just around the corner, we pass it every day on our ride here. We get some food and stuff from the cafeteria, find a nice spot, have a picnic.” Ben can see a gaping hole in this plan.

“Yeah,” he begins, not really wanting to point it out to her because he would really like to go on a picnic with her and he really wished it would be as easy as she makes it sound.

“I’ve seen it, it seems nice, but Rey, it’s practically next to the Eurovision Village. We’d get recognized in a second and we have no security.” Not that he would want security with him. He can think of few things that would ruin the mood more than security. Well, being recognized by a hoard of Eurovision fans would be one of them, and _why is Rey still grinning?_

“Do you trust me?” she repeats. She takes his hand and all resistance shatters. He nods. Rey jumps to her feet and tugs him along with her.

“Come on.”

* * *

Rey keeps Ben’s hand clutched in hers as she drags him through the maze that is the arena. If she didn’t know better, she’d say she has butterflies in her stomach. But she doesn’t. Those sorts of feelings were rationalized away years ago. She’s simply doing this to make her friend feel better. That’s it.

When they arrive in the corridor with all the dressing rooms, she checks the time on her phone. Lunch is over and there’s no rehearsals today, so the chance of running in to anyone here is minimal. She wastes no time and pushes the handle of the first door.

“Uh... that’s Germany’s dressing room.” It’s locked. She moves to the next door. Pushes the handle. Locked.

“Rey, what are you doing?” The third door is locked, too, but it doesn’t matter. According to the sign on the door, it’s Italy’s dressing room, and from what she can remember, they don’t have what she needs anyway. The fourth door, marked _Moldova,_ is unlocked. _Sloppy,_ she thinks, triumphantly tugging the door open. She looks over her shoulder. Ben is standing in the middle of the corridor, watching her with a mix of terror and amusement. She grins and nods to the open door.

“Come on.” He looks hesitant. “I promise I won’t steal anything.” She smiles, trying to put him at ease. At this, he pads over to her and peeks into the room. It’s cluttered with clothing racks and a long dressing table laden with makeup lines the opposite wall.

“What do we need in here?” She pushes him in and closes the door behind him.

“I’ll show you. You see, I’m pretty certain…” She opens a box that sits on the dressing table. _Fuck yes,_ she thinks as she finds exactly what she’d been hoping for. She extracts the mannequin head sporting a blond wig and holds it up for Ben to see. “... Moldova’s dancers wear wigs.”

Ben’s face displays a spectacular range of emotions. He looks like he can’t believe his eyes. He looks like he’s about to burst out laughing. He looks happier than she’s ever seen him. He shakes his head slowly, but he can’t suppress the grin that is spreading across his face. Those adorable crooked teeth are on full display, and Rey’s knees are not going weak, or, well, they are, but that’s because she’s been standing an awful lot lately. During all the rehearsals and such. Yeah.

“You can’t mean-”

“Oh, I can. Take a seat, Mr. Solo.” He hasn’t told her his last name yet, but she might have googled him the other night. His discography is _impressive_. Ben is still looking like he can’t believe he’s going along with this, and he shakes his head, chuckling as he sits down in front of the mirror above the dressing table. Rey smiles to herself as she rummages through drawers, looking for hair ties and bobby pins. She hadn’t taken into account that by putting a wig on Ben, she would inevitably have to run her fingers through his hair, but she sure isn’t complaining. She grabs a handful of pins and hair ties from a drawer. Ben is watching her in the mirror.

“This doesn’t have to be good, we can hide most of it with your hood.” She tugs at the hoodie he is conveniently sporting today.

“Sure,” replies Ben and she sets upon doing his hair before he changes his mind or decides she’s crazier than what he bargained for and leaves. She tries to ignore her hammering heart as she pins his hair back from his face and gathers the lengths at the back of his neck. His hair is so _soft_. And he smells really good. She smiles as she notices that he has really big ears; he’s been hiding them under his luscious locks. She tugs the wig from the styrofoam head and carefully wrestles it onto Ben’s head. It’s not a perfect fit and some black hairs are sticking out from underneath, but she can hide that with the hood. She meets Ben’s eyes in the mirror. He looks like he’s about to burst out laughing.

“What do you think?”

“I think you’ve done a splendid job. I’ve never looked this ugly - no one will recognize me.” She swats his shoulder and pulls up his hoodie, arranging it so a few blond strands frame his face.

“Watch your mouth, or else I might give you a moustache.”

“Oh, I definitely want a moustache.” She stops what she’s doing and stares at him, disbelieving.

“You _want_ a moustache?” Ben shrugs and grins. He seems to be more comfortable now; he’s almost lounging in his chair.

“Better go all the way, don’t you think? And I’ve never had a moustache before, it might be a good look for me.” Rey lets out a huff of laughter. He’s actually quite funny. Not that she’d expected him to be boring, but so far he’s come across as very sweet and a little shy. Now, hell, this guy seems to have the potential to be positively hilarious. Who would’ve thought.

“Well then, a moustache you shall have. Give me a minute.” She bites her lip and thinks. She needs something she can cut a few hairs from, and she’s not so devoid of respect for other people’s property that she’ll start cutting the wig she has _borrowed_ . She looks at herself in the mirror. Her hair is looking nice nowadays, now that she has a stylist who cuts and brushes and pampers it every now and then. She's even got highlights for the first time in her life, as her stylist argued that a little color shift would catch the spotlights beautifully when she’s onstage. Now, isn’t _that_ a happy coincidence. She grabs a pair scissors from the table, selects the lightest strand she can find and lifts the scissors to her hair. Ben splutters.

“Don’t fucking cut-, oh, damn, Rey, you didn’t have to do that.” She waves her hand dismissively, carefully cradling the scant centimetre of hair. She screws the lid off of a tube of lash glue with her teeth.

“It’s not even a centimetre, calm down. And hold still now, this is tricky.” She carefully glues the hairs to his upper lip. His breath is warm on her hands. Her treacherous heart is beating hard again by the time she glues the last hair to his lip. She spins his chair to face the mirror.

“What do you think, _monsieur_?” Ben stares at himself, smiling.

“You know what, this may actually work.”

“I told you.” Rey finds a tousled pink bob wig in a drawer, one that looks like it comes from a party supply store. Must have been left over from some party or something. It'll do just fine. She hastily french braids her hair and tucks the end in under the braid, securing it with some bobby pins, and slides the wig on. When she looks up from under the bangs, Ben is holding out a pair of shades to her, himself already sporting a pair that look like the came straight out of _The Matrix_. With the hood and the blond wig, the combined impression is absolutely incredible. She puts her glasses on and they regard their new looks in the mirror for a while. It’s Ben who breaks the silence.

“We look like we’re about to make the world’s ugliest music video.” She laughs.

“We look like we’re in Eurovision.” At this, he laughs too, a full belly laugh and it’s _beautiful_ , and she's so taken aback that her own laughter almost falters, but then she sees his shades again and just can’t keep it together. He looks _so_ ridiculous. She takes his hand and tugs him to his feet.

“Come on, we have a picnic to go to.”

They keep giggling all the way back to the deserted cafeteria. Rey can’t look at Ben without laughing, and everytime she does, he does too, and she’s not exactly trying to hold back at this point. His laughter may be the most beautiful thing she’s heard.

The lunch buffet is gone. They fill Rey’s tote with some cookies, fruit, some bottles of water and two cans of iced coffee that have been left on a table in the corner. They leave the arena through a back door and walk out into the sunny spring day.

* * *

 They’re sitting in the shade of a large rhododendron bush in a secluded corner of the park. Most of the cookies are finished, as is the fruit. Ben is sipping on his lukewarm canned coffee and feels wonderfully at ease. The air is silky and warm and smells of grass and flowers. The ground is soft. They’ve been eating and talking and Ben has showed Rey the game he was playing just a few days ago, when she by some miracle sat down next to him in that first orientation meeting. She plays on his phone for half an hour while he lies down in the grass next to her, looking at the clouds and marvelling at how natural their interactions feel. There’s been no awkward silences, no tense disagreements, no clashes of incompatible personality traits. She makes him laugh, and in return that has coaxed a pretty witty side out of him that he didn’t even know existed. She even makes him forget about Snoke.

“So what’s the deal with your manager?” Fuck. The sinking sensation that always comes with the mentioning of his manager is hastily creeping back into his chest. He’d hoped she wouldn’t ask, but as she’s been witness to Snoke’s, eh, _managing techniques_ twice now, it’s really not fair to keep her out of the loop. She deserves an explanation. He sighs.

“What do you want to know?” Rey takes a sip of water before answering.

“How long have you been with him?”

“Eleven years.” Rey whistles.

“That’s a very long time.” He shrugs. There’s a moment’s silence.

“How did you end up with him?” Ben looks at the clouds. They’re soft and wispy, moving slowly across the sky. He doesn’t know where to start. It all began so long ago, the events that led to him leaving the States after the fallout with his parents, ending up angry and alone in Paris, devoid of purpose and direction. That’s when Snoke found him.

In retrospect, it seems almost predestined. He can’t see how his life could have gone any other way. Every step of the way led to the next, and no matter how hard he fought against it, he had drifted along, not being able to change or stop a single thing from happening. His whole life felt like watching a car crash in slow motion. When Snoke knocked on the door to his run-down apartment, he had probably been something like three days away from starting to smoke crack just to force his life into another direction.

“He found me at a very... “ he struggles to find the most cautious wording, “... a very troubled time in my life. I was young, angry, and alone in Paris, with a lot of potential but no ability to make anything of it. He provided me with direction, and the determination to be as good as I can possibly be. Before him, I had no plans, no hope, no future.” Snoke had also provided him with the opportunity to not choose for himself, to not suffer the consequences of deciding what to do with his life and inevitably fail miserably, because that what he’d always done best. He took that opportunity without thinking twice. He could let himself be molded into something, be free of agonizing choices, and just let someone wiser than him steer him in the right direction, trusting that the outcome would be good. So far, it has been. At least from a career point of view.

Rey considers him silently. Her face is neutral, but he can tell there’s something else under the surface. He’s not sure what it is.

“Are you happy now?” At this, Ben actually starts. His heartbeat picks up and he doesn’t know what to say.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Rey finishes her can of coffee and crawls over to him, rolling down on her back in the grass and unabashedly placing her head in his lap. “Did it turn out the way you hoped it would? Do you feel good about where you are now?”

Ben doesn’t know what to answer to this, either. He tries to gain control over his coffee-free hand, but it doesn’t obey him, and moves to push away a strand of tousled wig from Rey’s face. She sighs, contentedly.

“I don’t know.” It comes out faint, almost as a whisper. Rey hums.

“Do me a favor, Ben. Don’t stop asking yourself that. I think you might need it.” Ben really doesn’t want to. He’s fairly sure he stopped feeling anything years ago, but she is rapidly changing that. When he’s with her, he feels like he is slowly thawing, feelings returning to him like spring warming the frozen ground. He’s not sure it’s entirely good. But he can’t deny Rey anything, so he whispers, “Okay,” and she seems to be satisfied with that. They sit like that for a moment, him sipping on the last of his coffee, her resting with her head in his lap.

“What about you?” She still has the shades on, so he can’t tell if her eyes are open or closed, but she smiles with those wonderful pink lips, and he realizes he’s dangerously close to falling for this girl. It doesn’t scare him as much as it ought to.

“I’m so happy.” A beat. “You know, me and Finn didn’t have much going for us when we grew up. It was kind of… frugal. The Eurovision Song Contest was the highlight of every year when we were kids. We started to make our own music when we were ten years old, because we wanted to be like the stars in Eurovision. And now we’re making a living playing music. We’re in the Eurovision Song Contest. It’s spring. And right now,” she takes off her shades and her green eyes glint in the sunlight, “I’m at a picnic in a park with the best company.” She closes her eyes and shifts in his lap, making herself more comfortable.

“I would give every last penny I have for this.”

Ben is certain he’ll remember the moment he fell for Rey, hard and irrevocably, for the rest of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sunglasses in the Matrix](https://ae01.alicdn.com/kf/HTB1IY71LXXXXXbPXXXXq6xXFXXXY/Matrix-Neo-Glasses-Steampunk-Rimless-Fashion-Vintage-Oval-Bycicle-Sports-Black-Metal-Collect-Neo-Sunglasses-MX001.jpg)?
> 
> That's it for this chapter, see you in the next update where there's a party and we meet some new friends. Ohohoohooooo fun times!


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